He was a large, muscular man and when he sat down on the bus, the leather seat expelled air. I peeked at him around the pages of the book I read. My writer brain started to invent a character sketch:
He’s a construction worker by day, a bartender by night and his feet hurt. It feels really good to sit down for the long ride home.
Or . . . he’s a pastor on his way to the inner city church he serves. The dirty T-shirt is a cover-up and helps him relate to the young people in his congregation.
Or . . . he’s an undercover spy and just wants me to think he’s a normal guy. Underneath that T-shirt is a 357 Magnum, holstered but loaded.
Then he crossed one leg, and I discovered he was far from normal. Tattooed on his right leg was the image of a little girl with her name inked above a likeness of her sweet face, “Kelsey Jane, beloved daughter.”
What kind of guy loves his daughter so much he tattoos her picture on his massive leg? Was she one of those tragic little ones that cancer took away?
Or is she a kidnapping victim and he wears her image to help people look for her?
The creative writer at work again.
He caught me staring at the tattoo. Before I could disappear behind the pages of my book, he answered my questions with vulnerable honesty, “I’m divorced, and I don’t get to see her very often. This way, I always carry her with me.”
Swallowing the lump in my throat, I said, “That’s the greatest tattoo I’ve ever seen.”
He tipped his Royals baseball cap toward me, then turned away. I returned to my book — both of us retreating into our own worlds as people do on mass transit.
I almost wanted to find the nearest tattoo establishment and ask for a picture of my son emblazoned near my heart.
But I could not forget the image and the question it posed, What kind of guy loves his daughter so much he tattoos her picture on his leg?
Then I remembered another guy who does the same thing — not on his leg, but on his hand — on the tender palm area where he sees it every time he reaches out to help someone.
Almighty God exclaims, “See, I have tattooed your name on my palm. . .” (Isaiah 49:16).
God Himself cares so much about each of us he has tattooed us on the palms of his powerful hands.
In the original Talmud, the meaning of this tattooed engraving was of an unbreakable bond, of a love so intense it was comparable to a mother’s love that could never forget her child.
The Hebrew word for tattoo also included the provision of God’s care, reaching out to protect his children from harm.
As God’s kids, we can depend on that mother love, that unbreakable bond, that caring and loving provision.
Always. Every. Single. Day. Forever.
I often think about that guy on the bus and hope he’s enjoying quality time with his daughter. Usually, I remember him when I’m going through a rough patch and need some encouragement.
The tattoo of Kelsey Jane still makes me smile.
And the visual of my image tattooed on the palm of God’s hand fills me with hope.
©2019 RJ Thesman – All Rights Reserved
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